


of machines and golden feathers

by chesswatchesclouds



Series: behind the clouds, the sun still shines [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chocobos, Cindy deserves the world, Gen, MT Prompto, Poor Prompto, Prompto is NH-01987
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-04 22:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12177573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesswatchesclouds/pseuds/chesswatchesclouds
Summary: “You ain’t a machine,” Cindy tells him. “Trust me, I would know.”





	of machines and golden feathers

**Author's Note:**

> MT!Prompto is one of my favourite tropes ever so here i am. Cindy is sunshine personified and she deserves _everything_ , fight me on this (ง'̀-'́)ง

He is NH-01987 but the most beautiful woman he has ever seen calls him Prompto.

“I ain’t callin’ you a bunch a’ numbers,” she tells him, her smile as bright as the blinding sun that hurts his eyes. There’s oil on her cheeks and smudged on her fingers but her green eyes shine above rosy cheeks.

“An’ besides, you moved so damned fast when ya saw me comin’ that it only seems right,” she finishes, ruffling his hair fondly.

Her name is Cindy Aurum, and she is the first person to treat Prompto like a  _person_. She sits him in a lounge chair beside a man she affectionately refers to as ‘Paw-paw,’ an old man who grumbles under his breath under the respiting shade of a large red parasol, but who doesn’t treat him as any less of a human.

“You ain’t a machine,” he says, as Prompto sits quietly in the shade and watches Cindy slip on her gloves and crack open the bonnet of a car like it’s a treasure chest. “I  _know_  machines, and you ain’t one.”

Cindy and her Paw-paw are  _very_  confusing to Prompto.

Cindy is bubbly and friendly and wonderful. She answers every question with a smile and laughs giddily at the smallest things, but she’s fiercely protective of Prompto, leaping quickly to his aid and quick to shut down the cruel glowers thrown his way. She holds a wrench with as much ease as Prompto can hold a rifle and she looks every bit as deadly while she does it. Her carefree, happy-go-lucky smile turns sharp with a single word, curling her lips upwards in a sharp curve that rivals the points of the most dangerous Magitech Assassins in NH-01987’s unit. Her words can cut just as deep, Prompto’s found; Cindy is friendly until she’s not, until Prompto is brought into hissed and gestured conversations from silently judging civilians.

“That’s not a  _boy_ ,” a man says, waving to where Prompto sits in the shade.

With trembling fingers and wide eyes, Prompto is tracing the snow-capped mountains depicted in the magazine Cindy had left him with as she trotted off to work. The next page over is a shore line below a stormy sky, waves mid-crash and dangerous and beautiful.

“That’s a  _monster_!”

“I reckon you’ve overstayed your welcome,” Cindy says icily. “You oughta leave before I decide your worthless piece a junk truck ain’t even  _worth_  my time.”

Cindy storms off, boots heavy on the concrete underfoot as she whips off her gloves and launches them across the garage. Prompto watches it all happen blankly but when a door slams and it’s just Cid and Prompto sitting in their lounge chairs and waiting for cars to pass through the outpost, his brows pull together in a worried frown.

“She’ll calm down,” says Cid. He’s tinkering with a circular saw, tools splayed across the table between them and held between his fingers. “You ain’t a monster, son. I’ve seen an’ fought  _real_  monsters, an’ you ain’t one.”

Prompto’s not so sure. He doesn’t understand why they’re going to so much effort for him; Cindy continues to buy photography magazines for him and sits with him on her breaks, looking over his shoulder at the rolling hills and the golden beaches. Cindy works and Cid tinkers and they put up with the mutters and whispers and cold looks while Prompto sits with his magazines and dreams of places far away.

It’s a foggy morning when Prompto turns the page of his magazine and finds a picture of a chocobo, neck extended to the sun and feathers as golden as Cindy’s curly hair, eyes closed in the warmth of the sun Prompto can’t see. The clouds on the page are grey like Cid’s beard, a promise of rain in the background. The next page shows more, birds sleeping and running and walking and jumping, a kaleidoscope of different colours of feather. Prompto traces their shapes with his finger and  _wants_.

Cindy smiles brightly when he hesitantly shows her the page and timidly asks about chocobos.

“Well now,” she says, perched on the edge of his chair while the magazine lies open on his lap. “There’s Wiz’s Chocobo Post over in Duscae – see, here? There’s the advertisement! How’s about I ask Dave about takin’ ya to see them, huh? Do ya some good to get away from these hermit heads.”

His heart might burst with joy, he thinks; it’s wild and explosive, travelling up his chest and through his throat to his mouth, pulling his lips into a wide and excited grin. It feels strange and  _right_ , unlike any emotion Prompto has ever been allowed to convey. He’s an MT, blank of facial expression and heartless and a  _machine_ , but he feels like he might cry here and now. His fingers stroke over those long necks and smooth beaks, wistful and hopeful.

“Maybe you oughta join him,” Cid remarks. “Would do ya  _both_  some good.”

“Ain’t that temptin’,” Cindy says thoughtfully, “but I got too much still ta do here, Paw-paw.”

Prompto keeps the pages tucked in the pocket of the coat Cindy lends him, a bright yellow thing covered in stains that smells faintly of her perfume but more of oil. The pages are creased and tearing with the frequency Prompto looks at them and he’s so close, so close to feeling soft feathers between his fingers instead of just imagining them.

Dave arrives with his truck and Canis dangling from the passenger window, tongue lolling and tail wagging; she barks happily when Cindy bounds over, Prompto trailing unsurely after her. Prompto hardly remembers the dog but she remembers him, her short tail swings to-and-fro faster as she catches sight of him. Her front paws are on the door as she barks again, attempting to clamber out to him and stopped only by Cindy’s approach. Canis licks a happy stripe up Cindy’s dirt-streaked cheek and pants in the heat, and her eager eyes return to Prompto.

Canis was the one to find him, sprawled out on his back in the desert and bleeding through his armour, helmet missing and tears reddening his eyes and cheeks. She had bounded up to him, circled him a few times as she cautiously sniffed at his ruined armour and abandoned weapon, then she’d barked in his ear and ran off. Her barking didn’t stop until Dave had slid down the sand dune and found him.

He doesn’t know what to do.

“It’s alright, son,” Dave tells him. He’s sliding out from the truck, arm hooked through the open driver’s side window as he peers over the roof at him. “She won’t bite ya.”

“She’s harmless,” Cindy agrees, grinning. “She’s a big ol’ lump of fur an’ fat, ain’t ya, love? Yes, you  _are_!”

Canis barks in happy, oblivious agreement, eyes shut in bliss as Cindy peppers kisses along her head and ears. Her eyes are brown like her rough, chocolatey fur when she looks at Prompto expectantly, waiting with her tail swinging idly back and forth. He raises a hand to shyly stroke along her neck, above a worn leather collar with tears in it. She barks and dives forward, licking Prompto’s fingers before he wrenches back. The terror he feels in the pit of his stomach dissipates as Canis only keens lowly; Prompto had only seen those sharp white teeth as she flown forward, thought only that they would  _hurt_ , and instinct had ensured that he protect himself and ensure that never happened  _again_. Now, as Canis’ tail drops to a sluggish shake, Prompto slowly reaches forward again and curls his fingers under her chin.

Her tongue is warm when she tentatively licks his fingers, patiently waiting for a reaction. When no negative one is recurring, she perks up, tail thumping against the leather backrest as she slobbers all over his skin. Prompto grins, stepping forward to rest against the chipped paint of Dave’s truck; he tries to copy Cindy, thinking about how she’d dipped down to let the dog near her face. It doesn’t seem wise, with those sharp canine teeth capable of so much he doesn’t know, but all Canis does is lick at his lips and nose and sniff curiously at his chest, where an old t-shirt of Cid’s hides layers and layers of bandages and still healing cuts.

“He ain’t ridin’ any chocobos, y’hear?” Cindy fixes Dave with a pointed stare. “Don’t matter how much Prom begs, it ain’t happenin’.”

Cindy helps Prompto climb into the truck, giving him a once-over and checking his bandages one last time. Canis obediently sits in the middle and she licks his ear when Cindy closes the door.

“I  _mean_  it, Dave,” she says to the hunter returning to the wheel. “He’s got a  _hell_  of a puppy-dog eye goin’ for him, don’t let him trick ya.” She shucks Canis under the chin and squeezes Prompto’s hand before she steps back.

“Have fun, Prom,” she tells him with another of her bright and magical grins. “Bring somethin’ back for me, okay?”

* * *

Dave whistles tunelessly and Canis sleeps with her head on Prompto’s thigh. They drive with the windows rolled down and the wind ruffling their hair while Prompto sits slouched in his seat and dreamily watches the scenery passing by. He remembers cool metal and harsh, biting winds, blizzards that took squads of MTs quicker than any wound could; out here, in this strange and hot land where his mission took such a twist, the wind is warm and soft and the land is full of dangerous creatures ready to rip his arm off.

Even so, Prompto prefers the enemy he stands a chance against, the one he can aim his weapon and fire at.

Dave’s whistling tapers off. He fiddles with the radio on the dashboard but hits only static.

“I’ll have to ask Cindy to take a look for me,” he says aloud. “She’s got a magic touch, that one.”

In Niflheim, the whole truck would have been replaced by now; the seats are wearing thin and the dashboard is scratched and the paint job is chipped and fading. The engine rattles loudly as they potter on, out of the dusty, blistering desert onto winding roads that delve deep into thick forests. Prompto has only seen places like this in his magazines; the trees travel on for miles and miles in all directions, wide and  _up_ , up into the sky, with branches and branches of bright green leaves that block the sun and cast patterns of light on the road. It reminds him of the pictures in his magazines, of beaches and cliff edges and mountains and volcanoes, reminds him that these places are  _real_ , that it takes only the perfect lighting and the perfect  _moment_.

Prompto has never seen a more perfect moment – and it’s passing him by.

Dave is watching Prompto’s fascination and delight with a curiously sad expression. His brows are drawn tightly together and his hands clenched unusually hard on the steering wheel.

“Ain’t ever seen trees before?” he asks.

Prompto shakes his head. “Not like this.”

“What kinda trees have  _you_  seen?”

“White ones.” Prompto pauses. “Everything is white where I come from.”

 _Gralea is metal and rain and crowded streets_ , he thinks,  _but everything is white outside the facility_.

Dave hums. “Never seen snow myself,” he says. “Though, if ya get close enough to the Rock of Ravatogh, there’s ash in the air. Reckon that’s close enough.”

“Ash?” Prompto asks. Prompto has only ever seen ash in the aftermath of battle, when daemons have wreaked havoc and the MTs are clearing up.

“Ravatogh’s a volcano,” Dave tells him. “Still active, too.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Oh,  _yes_.” Dave is smiling, his hands loosening their tight grip on the wheel. “Some pretty big varmints up there, takes some experience and a whole lotta brass neck to go after ‘em.” He pauses, considering, and then asks, “You any good with that rifle we found ya with?”

“Best in my unit,” Prompto answers. MTs don’t boast about the skills they’re trained to have but Prompto worked  _hard_ , overcame obstacles the others didn’t face – he’s clumsy and curious, and he treaded the line for decommissioning so often that he couldn’t afford to  _not_ train hard.

Dave is still wearing that soft, considering look.

“Hm,” he muses. He doesn’t say anything else.

Canis’ tail thumps against Prompto’s arm; there’s a wet patch on his loose-fitting jeans where she has drooled on him. Canis wriggles closer until Prompto buries his fingers in the fur beside her neck. She exhales contentedly and sleeps on.

“You’d think I worked her to death,” Dave notes with breathless disbelief. He removes one hand from the wheel to ruffle Canis’ ears. “Lazy mutt.”

The words are an insult but they’re said with a fondness that confuses Prompto. Canis perks up and twists on the seat to look at Dave, tail thumping against the seats again; her mouth hangs open and her tongue dangles and Prompto thinks she’s grinning.

“Now,” Dave directs at Prompto; he realises belatedly that they’re approaching a large, yellow-lighted sign declaring ‘Wiz’s Chocobo Post.’ “Remember what Cindy told ya: no ridin’ the chocobos today. We’re here ta see them to help with your recovery, alright son?”

Prompto nods enthusiastically but he’s only half listening. Dave is turning the car towards a small outpost with pens outside; people are milling about and there’s a length of road in a wide circle to his right. Two chocobos and their riders are racing, exhilarated, feathers of white and yellow falling from the birds and catching in the wind, fluttering softly to the ground. Prompto’s heart is thundering in his chest, pounding in his ears; there are chocobos  _every_ where, lounging in stalls, pecking at the hands that feed, curled up on the ground as they nap lazily in the sun.

Canis stays close to him as he slowly pulls himself out of the truck, bewildered. Where does he even begin? He is flustered and unsure and excited, out of breath and close to tears; Canis nudges at his hand with her cool and wet nose, licking at his fingers until he kneels like a cripple to clench his hands in her fur and ground himself again. There are so many people around him, so many people smiling and laughing and  _oblivious_ to what he is. It’s a welcome change from the cold looks of the anxious people in Hammerhead and Prompto grasps it with two hands, smiling brightly.

His smile will never be as bright as Cindy’s – she has golden rays of sunshine in her smile and streaked in the curls of her hair – but it’s wide and wonderful and light.

Canis trots happily at his heels as Prompto explores at Dave’s behest. He stands next to a man he introduces as Wiz –  _the_ Wiz, Prompto realises with some idol worship – but their conversation turns towards beasts and hunts and  _problems_  and, as Prompto overhears, “I ain’t here for that an’ I can’t leave Prompto there alone. Let me makes some calls, Wiz.”

Prompto twists the yellow fabric wrapped around his wrist, disguising his barcode from view. A last-minute addition to his outfit that Cindy had seemed hesitant to give him; she’d frowned the entire time Prompto had his hand in her lap, bit at her lip as she wound it twice around his too-skinny wrist and knotted it firmly.

“Paw-paw says we can’t be too careful,” she told him, holding his hand afterwards. “I think the world just ain’t ready for you yet, Prom.”

The chocobo in the end pen, with muted yellow feathers the same shade as Prompto’s hair, looks at him with bright, inquisitive blue eyes. She kwehs softly when he doesn’t immediately approach her, as impatient as he is hopeful, and when another cry doesn’t prompt him forward, she comes to him. One large, clawed foot stomps the ground impatiently and her wings flutter; she comes as far as the edge of the pen and cranes her head forward, feathers shaking as her wings shake.

Canis knocks Prompto forward.

The chocobos feathers are as soft as he imagined, smooth against his fingers as he brushes his hand unsurely over them. She kwehs again, satisfied, and her smooth, dark beak plucks delicately at his hair, tugging fondly. She draws back, pulling Prompto with her, and he buries his face in her magnificent plumage and tries not to cry.

Prompto loves her.

“Well, lookit that,” says a voice over his shoulder. “She ain’t let anyone close in the longest time.”

The chocobo kwehs again, feathers bristling, but she doesn’t try to dislodge Prompto. Her beak is smooth against his cheek as she fondly knocks against him.

Prompto looks over his shoulder, his eyes searching Dave’s pleadingly. The hunter shakes his head, bulky tattooed arms crossed over his chest.

“You ain’t ridin’,” Dave reminds him pointedly. The chocobo plucks at Prompto’s shirt and catches the cotton of the bandages. “Ain’t happenin’ son.”

Prompto’s hand clenches in the chocobo’s feathers and his bottom lip wobbles. The chocobo squawks indignantly at Dave, fixing her wings as Prompto cuddles closer.

“No,” Dave says. At Prompto’s feet, Canis barks.

“Y’know,” Wiz says, his grin altogether too suspicious for a man Prompto thinks is supposed to be taking Dave’s side, “chocobos are very intelligent.”

“I know that,” Dave responds, “but Cindy said –“

“Cindy’s not here!” Prompto blurts out and he buries his face in yellow feathers again. At Prompto’s feet, Canis barks.

“No,” Dave repeats, far less confidently. Wiz gives him a barbed look.

The bird is  _very_  careful with Prompto. Wiz walks by her side as she takes slow and deliberate steps, doing her best not to jostle her rider too often, and Prompto beams from the saddle and thinks that this might be the best day of his life.

“This stays between  _us_ ,” Dave tells him, walking on the chocobo’s other side. “Even  _I_ ain’t brave enough to lie to Cindy Aurum.”

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [tumblr!](https://chesswatchesclouds.tumblr.com) (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


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